


haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds

by thelilacfield



Series: there is no world where i am not yours [22]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Beauty and the Beast Elements, F/M, Fairy Tale Style, Sorcerers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28037049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilacfield/pseuds/thelilacfield
Summary: “Stay here a while. Feel free to explore my home. I will light a fire upstairs for you and leave the door open so you know which room to sleep in.”He walks away from her, leaving her standing by the fire. Heart undevoured, body untouched. And her skin alight with frustration.
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: there is no world where i am not yours [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859725
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds

**A/N:** AU-dvent day 12! Based in the Magic AU prompt from AU-gust, and a simple excuse to write more fluffy fantasy. And okay, yes, technically I am late with day 12 but barely, I think it still counts!

I'm on Tumblr and Twitter **@mximoffromanoff** if anybody wants to chat about all things scarletvision! Enjoy, and please let me know with a comment if you do :)

* * *

The candles are heavy with thick droplets of melted wax, and Wanda's skirts are tucked up around her knees where she sits on the floor, allowing Jane and Darcy's giggles to wash over her like the tide against the shore. Darcy's curls are falling from the pins holding them in place, Jane's face flushed and the laces of her dress loosened, and she's smiling and blushing when Darcy says, "Mr. Odinsson was looking at you _all_ night! He's going to propose, Jane, I can _feel_ it."

"How perfect for some," Wanda says, giving Jane a jealous glance. "I just had to listen to Mr. Rogers telling me all about how he's been tracking a sorcerer. He says he's going to find them within six months and stop their wickedness and avenge his fiancée."

"They say that manor behind the woods is owned by a sorcerer," Darcy says, her eyes gleaming. "He takes young girls who get too close and seduces them and eats their hearts. They never see daylight again."

"You know that's all an old wive's tale," Wanda says, rolling her eyes.

"It is _not_!" Darcy shrieks, so loud it's a wonder no one comes knocking to tell them to quiet down for the late hour. "That's what happened to Natasha! A sorcerer took her! That's why Mr. Rogers wants revenge!"

"Natasha wasn't in love with Mr. Rogers and she ran away with the pharmacist's apprentice," Wanda says, and Darcy huffs. "Sorcerers don't hurt young girls. I bet if I found a sorcerer I could survive being seduced."

"Could you?" Darcy asks, an eyebrow arching up towards her hair. "How?"

"The manor is supposed to be owned by a sorcerer?" Wanda asks, and Darcy nods. "Fine. I'll go there, and I'll seduce him, and I'll live."

It's a ridiculous thing to suggest. No doubt put in her mind by the glasses of wine she had to make herself smile through listening to the ridiculous chatter of the men at the ball. But Darcy and Jane light up with excited wonder, Darcy's eyes glittering when she says, "Prove it." And soon they have her pushed out into the rainstorm, her feet bare on the ground, a white dress clinging excitingly to her figure as the walk through the woods drenches her.

An owl calls out in the night, the stars winking silver against the dark sweep of the sky. The falling sheets of rain have soaked her through, her hair sticking in dark whorls to her cheeks and neck, goosebumps rising on her skin beneath the thin material of her dress. She's shivering as she reaches the manor, the gate creaking when her fingers curl over the rusty metal and pushes it open, and she steps into a sorcerer's garden. Paving stones lead a path to the door, the plants at her feet disappearing into shadow, and before she even reaches the door it flies open to the glow of candlelight and a silhouette in the doorway.

The sorcerer is tall and slender, framed by the golden glow of candles. And they're moving towards her, hands pulling a black hood over his face, and as their speed towards her picks up fear grip her chest. She should have thought more on what a sorcerer might do if a strange girl broke into their garden in the centre of a storm, should've thought of the power they might hold, and as a large pale hand rises from the folds of the cloak she thinks she's going to die.

But then the cloak is being swept off, revealing a handsome face, blue eyes, plush lips, hair falling forward over his forehead. He tucks the cloak around her shoulders, and she sees it's a rich navy rather than a black, silken yellow-gold lining brushing against her skin, and the material covers her, drowning her. He's so much taller than her, looking down at her with eyes bright with concern, and his cloak smells of blown-out candles and sweet herbs and the spark of magic. "You must be frozen," he says, and something about his smooth voice sends a quiver through her stomach. "Come inside, come. Warm yourself by my fire. This is no weather to be caught alone in."

When the door to the manor swings closed behind her, she expects the candles to snuff out, expects the sorcerer to turn to her with a devious grin and swoop down to devour her heart. But he bustles into a room and gestures to her to follow, and there's a fire crackling merrily in a grate and no outward sign that he practices magic. "Sit, sit!" he urges, and she moves towards a plush armchair, curling herself down into it and gazing down at the marble chess board in front of her, the firelight's flickering reflection in the sorcerer's eyes when he leans down to stoke it. "Would you like to borrow some clothes? You must be frozen, Miss-"

"Wanda," she says, and a slight smile brightens his handsome face. "I'm Wanda. And that would be very nice of you, thank you."

"I have a lovely selection of gowns," he says, and she wonders at that. Perhaps they are from all the girls whose hearts he ate, hanging like jewel-coloured trophies. "But they are all far too formal. Would you mind borrowing my clothes?"

She casts an eye at the loose fit of his white shirt, the tight cut of his black pants, and her lips curl in a momentary smirk before she remembers she must play the part of the helpless maiden, ripe to be seduced. "No, sir," she says, and glances at him from beneath her lashes, momentarily tucking her teeth into the curve of her lower lip. "Might I ask the name of my saviour on this terrible night?"

"Vision," he says softly. "Just Vision." And then he disappears, and she unravels his cloak from around her. The fire makes the room warm enough for the cold of her wet dress to not matter so much, and she arranges herself artfully in the armchair, an inviting prospect. White lace clinging to her body, the skirt rucked up around her to show off shapely legs, the neckline low enough to showcase the round softness of her breasts.

When he returns, he barely glances at her. All the stories say sorcerers leap without hesitation on young women alone in the woods, that they would never hesitate to take advantage of a situation like the one she conjured up for herself. But he doesn't look, even when she arches her back to show an even deeper view of her cleavage when she leans forward to take the pile of clothes in his hand. When she unbuttons the front of her dress, the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons twisting in her fingers, he turns his back, and she huffily peels herself from her dress and dons his shirt.

The navy material is soft on her arms, and she slips into the pants, something delicious and illicit about wearing a man's clothes. Society would gasp to see her like this, wet hair and sharing clothes with a man in his manor, glancing up at him as she brushes a gentle fingertip to the corner of her mouth. "Thank you," she says, her voice all breath and need. "You're my hero."

Pink settles in the hollows of his cheeks and he smiles. "It's quite alright, Wanda," he says, and she practically purrs at the sound of her name on his lips. She may never have been with a man, but she knows something about what they want, how to present herself to him like a feast for the taking. "You may stay here until the storm ends, if you wish. There are many unoccupied bedrooms upstairs."

"Oh?" she asks, and he seems confused. Perplexity furrows his brow adorably, and she moves towards him, something hot and heady rushing through her at the way she can see the shape of his chest through the thin material of his shirt. "What about your bedroom?"

"I sleep downstairs," he says, clearly nonplussed. "My bed is next to my study. It's cold down there. You would be better off by a fire, I don't want you to catch ill." He doesn't move any closer to her, not even a move made to devour her like she maybe wants him to. "Stay here a while. Feel free to explore my home. I will light a fire upstairs for you and leave the door open so you know which room to sleep in."

He walks away from her, leaving her standing by the fire. Heart undevoured, body untouched. And her skin alight with frustration.

* * *

She is supposed to leave in the morning. Or at least try to seduce him and survive, spend more time close to him, make herself sweet and smooth for him, tempt him into trailing those plush lips along her skin. But when she wakes alone in the spare bedroom, cold ashes in the fireplace, and the world is hazy around her, a fire in her head and licking the back of her throat, and she trails the blankets when she steps out into the corridors, vaguely moving around the manor as if she belongs amongst these wood-panelled walls and gold-framed paintings.

Vision is in the room he welcomed her into, the fire still lit, and in the daylight she sees the shelves lined with leather-bound books, the paintings of trees and oceans and all manner of beautiful things. Yet he is the most beautiful, turning to look at her, concern blooming instantaneously across that handsome face. And he rushes across the room, his hand at her forehead, and she wants to melt into his touch, fall into him. Something about him is so compelling, and she hazily thinks about the goal of seducing him.

"You're too warm," he says, and she nods vaguely. "You have a fever, Wanda. It must have been triggered by being out in the rain last night."

"That's okay," she says, and her voice is slurred and slow. "I can go to the doctor in the village. He's very good."

"Or...I could help you," he says, and she blinks at him. "You may not know this, Wanda, but I...I am a sorcerer."

"The village has stories about sorcerers in manors who eat young girls' hearts," she says vaguely, and he looks startled. "Are you going to eat my heart, Vision?"

"I would never!" he gasps. "Though I can't speak for other sorcerers I've known throughout the years. Some delight in making honourable young women fall in love with them and breaking their hearts. In fact..." He trails off, a flush stealing into his high cheekbones, and she reaches up to touch his face. His skin is smooth and warm, and he leans into her touch for a moment before he collects himself.

"What were you going to say?" she asks, looking up at him and fluttering her eyelashes in a way she hopes is tempting.

"I was simply going to say that I was the product of one such union between a sorcerer and an innocent village girl," he says, and she gasps. "Regardless...I specialise in healing magic. You may have noticed the herbs in my garden - I use those to create medicine. But I can also soothe fevers and cure pains with my hands."

"Of course you can," she says, and though she means it to be flirtatious it must get lost in how much her head is swimming with fever. "Cure me, Vision."

It's not quite the seduction she imagined. He doesn't make a move to touch her beyond what is necessary. But she's sure that not many people have seen a sorcerer this way. Vulnerable, his concern for her painted over his face while she wears his clothes, the navy shirt slipping down to bare one pale shoulder when she sits down in his basement workshop. The walls are hung with richly-coloured tapestries, yellow the most oft-seen colour, and he's rolling up his sleeves and turning to her.

She may not be entirely lucid, but the world comes sharply into focus when he lifts his hands and his palms are filled with gold. When she blinks, she sees the specks of magic that flicker over his skin, flowing like water through his long fingers, and she breathes a quiet, "It's beautiful."

And he looks up, the gold reflected in his eyes, and laughs softly. "Haven't you ever seen magic?" he asks, and she shakes her head.

"Only magicians performing in theatres, and I know they have strings and hidden compartments," she says, and reaches to touch his hands. The gold quivers beneath her touch, and almost instantly some of her fever fades. " _Oh_ , I...you're really healing me."

Tension mists the air between them, and his eyes are so blue, the centre of her world. His magic creeps warm and golden over her skin, soothing her fever, pulling the ache from her bones. He cradles her hands in his, until the fog that clings to her seems to snap and she straightens up, blinking exhaustion from her eyes. "How do you feel now?" he asks, and she looks around at the room. Everything has snapped sharply into focus, and nothing more than him, the gold flecks in his eyes and the soft curve of his nervous smile.

"Better," she says softly, and he looks at her so closely, making her heart beat faster. Maybe this is what the stories meant by sorcerers devouring innocent young girls like her, the way he makes her feel, the heat sprouting in her chest, the way his eyes make her feel like a fly trapped in glorious amber.

"I want to keep an eye on you for a while," he says softly. "The magic isn't always reliable. And I need to be sure you're healed before I allow you back out in the cold."

"I can't stay long," she says softly. "I have friends who will worry about me."

"Just a few days," he promises. "Just stay with me for a few days." And, somehow hypnotised by the blue of his eyes and the gentle lure of his smile, she nods.

* * *

The days turn into weeks, the weather growing colder outside. She explores the manor in bare feet and Vision's clothes, running her fingers over the spines of his books. Opening them to read stories set in far-away lands, amongst blistering deserts and endless oceans and misty jungles. She persuades him to come away from his solitude in his study and read to her, his smooth voice moving over every word and her feet tucked beneath her in the same armchair she sat in the first night. When she wants for warmth, she takes that same cloak and wraps it around herself, and recognises the scent of him in the silk lining. It matches the colour of his magic, the distinctive scent that clings to him, and she feels draped in him when she wears it.

Russets and burnished gold turn to silver and grey beyond the window as autumn fades into winter, and she watches the first snow from the window, the fire in the grate behind her and the snowflakes silvery as they fall to dust his garden. And she knows he's behind her before he speaks, his presence setting her heart to fluttering and raising goosebumps on her skin, and he softly says, "The first snow, Always an auspicious time for sorcerers."

"It reminds me of my family," she says, the words pulled from her by his closeness, his warmth, the fine golden thread of the connection between them. And she turns to look at him and finds his face filled with concern and curiosity, soft with it, and melts beneath his gaze.

"Won't they be worried about you?" he asks, and she shakes her head.

"My family passed in a bad winter," she says softly, and sadness blossoms in his eyes. "We all took ill, but I was the only one who recovered. And I was adopted by the Lewis family, and they helped me take my place in society. I'm close with their daughter, but...it never replaces losing real family."

"It doesn't," he says softly, and she finds him wistful, looking out at the snow. "My mother passed in winter too. I remember how hard it was to dig her grave when the ground was frozen."

"What was your mother like?" she asks, and his mouth tenses in a hard line. "My mother's name was Marya. My father was Django. They met at a ball and never looked back. I had a twin brother too, named Pietro. We were a happy family even though we never had much money."

"Her name was Vanessa," he says, his eyes sad as the snow spirals silver from the pale sky. "She was a village girl, like you. I look like her, from what I remember of her. I remember her in gold."

"How did she pass?" she asks, and he flinches. "Oh...you don't have to tell me. I forget sometimes that we...we have only known each other a few weeks."

"It feels like I have known you for a lifetime, Wanda," he says, and it's the words she stopped herself from staying. The connection between them is almost tangible in the air, a glowing gold, and she looks away from the pull of his eyes before she can lose herself in him. "And I want to share my story with you. I don't know why."

"Perhaps because I'm a good listener?" she suggests softly, and he shakes his head.

"No, I don't think it's that," he says, and she gazes at him hypnotised. "Will you let me share my life with you, Wanda?"

"Anything you wish," she says, and her words tremble as they leave her lips.

"My magic comes from my father," he says, and she settles in to listen, to ride on the rhythm of his voice. "He was a sorcerer like the ones your village tells stories about. My mother was a village girl who wandered too close to his manor, and he ate her heart, as the village folk put it. She loved him desperately, but he left her out in the cold before she even realised she was pregnant. Going back to the village with a baby and no husband in sight left a mark on her. She only survived to give birth to me through the kindness of a widower who cared for both of us."

"She sounds wonderful," Wanda whispers, and the faint smile of lost love blooms on his face.

"She was," he says softly. "My magic began to manifest when I was thirteen. And my father heard of me, and came hunting. The widower had died when I was eight, and left the house and money to my mother. I remember my father at the door, in his silver cape, telling me to come with him so he could teach to control my magic. And...my mother told him he could never take me." He shudders, and the next words leave him in a fragile rush. "I watched my father murder my mother for daring to disobey him."

" _Vision_ -" she gasps, the raw rasp of shock.

"I ran," he says. "And I found another sorcerer who showed me to control myself. And I vowed I would only use my powers to help and to heal. I will not be like my father."

"I'm so sorry, Vision-"

"It was a long time ago," he says, and she squints at him.

"But you look so young," she says, and he smiles slightly.

"We sorcerers are not immortal, but we can choose how long a life we live," he says. "There are rumours of a sorcerer who has lived for thousands of years, honing her magic and learning so much about the world."

"How long do you want to live?" she asks, and he tilts his head.

"I don't know," he says, and something in the air seems to shift between them. She notices his pale eyelashes, the tiny scar on his nose, the colour that tinges the tips of his ears. "I want to help all the people I can. I can ease emotion too, you know. Help someone who is grieving reduce some of their sadness. But I'm sure there will be a time when I believe I have done all I can, and then I will let myself fade."

"And sorcerers can shorten their lives too?" she asks, and he nods, and perhaps she's imagining it. But perhaps his eyes flicker to her lips. "Why would someone do that?"

"My mentor had lived a long life before I found him," he says, his voice hardly rising above a whisper, the moment lying as undisturbed as the fresh snow beyond the window. "But after I left, he met a woman. A doctor. And he reduced himself to a mortal life to be with her, to spend his time loving her. That seems a worthy reason to live to me."

"Love is the worthiest reason to live," she breathes, and the words hang golden in the air between them. His eyes shine, and his cheeks colour, and she reaches up to touch his face, to anchor herself to him in the moment of all moments.

When she kisses him, golden magic starbursts behind her eyes, and his arms cast around her, and they sink into the armchair as the snow silvers the ground beyond the manor, his warm hands creeping beneath her clothes and the fire singing on in the grate.

* * *

She came to the manor to seduce a sorcerer. To survive a night with the kind of man rumoured to devour her. But she didn't expect a man like Vision, who is so gentle and curious and sad, his hands on her so sweet, his lips on hers lighting a fire in her that she can't put out. She finds herself forever looking at him, longing to slide her hands beneath the fine fabric of his white shirts, watching the golden light dance in his hands and craving closeness.

"It reminds me of courtship when you cook for me," she says as he sets a plate down in front of her, and he flushes. "Not that any man has ever cooked for me. No village boy is that considerate."

"I wouldn't know," he says softly, brushing a kiss to the top of her head before he sits down beside her, and it lights her up golden. "I've never courted anyone."

" _Never_?"

"I am a sorcerer," he says, a gentle smile gracing that handsome face that haunts her dreams. "I have spent most of my life moving around to avoid the hunters. I only lingered here because something compelled me to stay." His eyes find hers and he melts her when he says, "Perhaps it was the knowledge that I would one day find you."

"And with that speech alone, you have courted me far better than anyone else," she says, and leans to kiss him. His lips are perfect on hers, the way his breath jumps when she brushes her tongue over the seam between his lips making heat pool in her stomach. When she pulls away, she smiles and says, "There are no poets amongst the village boys."

"I would like to court you properly, perhaps," he says, and she smiles to see him so obviously flustered. "Earn your affection."

"You don't need to do anything to earn me," she says, and heat fogs the room. Her want for him is spilling out of her, too hard to deny, and she pushes their food aside and shifts into his arms.

Every kiss with him feels so right. And she wonders how she ever expected to survive a night with him, when the way his mouth covers her drowns her. He has taken her heart and devoured it with his gentle smiles and kind words and soft hands, and she has him on his back soon enough, the laces of his shirt tangled around her eager fingers, his lips on his neck and his nails pressing into her back.

"Take me to the stars," he whispers, and she nods frantically, their clothes tangling on the ground, his skin on hers, a thousand heady sensations she's never felt before. Gold is threading through the air around them when she kisses him, climbs atop him, the air sparkling, his magic overflowing from him, and his eyes are dark with want. "Show me heaven."

"I will," she promises, and he tugs her hand to his lips, presses a long kiss to her palm that sets her alight, his eyes never leaving hers.

" _Devour me_ ," he breathes, and the next kiss never ends, his mouth hot against hers, his whimpers muffled on her lips, their bodies perfectly joined, his hands on her trailing gold across her skin until she is a painting, a masterpiece.

Everything is golden when they fall together, their names on each other's lips. And when she falls off him, panting, he finds her eyes and whispers, "You have taken all of me."

And her heart reaches for him, and she makes no attempt to pull it back.

* * *

She spends weeks enchanted by him. Falling into him at every opportunity, letting him take her hear and cradle it in those golden hands. It has been three months and the freshness of spring is starting to hint in the colour of the sky and the snowdrops peering through the soil when she turns over in Vision's arms and sadly sighs, "I should go back to the village. I've been gone so long, they...they must be worried about me."

"I've been selfish, keeping you here-"

"I wanted to stay," she says softly. He's a perfect painting in front of her, the sheets of his bed pooled around his hips, and she traces a pattern into his chest. "It's been like a story, being with you. But I should tell them where I have been all this time."

"Will you come back?" he asks, and fear invades the softness of his face, and she nods. "Do you promise?"

"Of course I do," she whispers, and leans down to kiss him. When she pulls away, he follows, and she smiles. "I just have to see Darcy and Jane. They'll be worried after they sent me wandering away to knock on the manor door where a sorcerer was rumoured to live."

"I thought you were simply lost in the woods," he says, and she shakes her head. "You knocked on my door deliberately?"

"We had been drinking, and I said I didn't believe sorcerers killed girls to eat their hearts," she says. "I said I could survive my heart being devoured, and they told me to go to the manor behind the woods and prove it."

"You came here...simply to prove a point to your friends?" he asks, and hurt is dulling the shine of his eyes, and she shakes her head, taking his face between her hands, the precious jewel that he is.

"I stayed more than one night because of you," she says softly. "Every moment between us has been real, Vision. I have been here for months with you."

"But-"

"I will come back," she promises, and kisses the truth of it onto his lips. "I will tell them that I have had my heart devoured. I love you. Keep that with you."

"You love me?" There's so much disbelief in his perfect face, and she kisses him again, willing him to feel it too. "Wanda-"

"I will be back by nightfall," she promises, and climbs out of his bed. She finds that white dress that she hasn't worn in months, takes his cloak with the yellow lining, and leaves with the weight of his eyes following her.

The village seems dull as she returns, his cloak floating around her, and she walks through the streets with her hood up. He's keeping her warm, the scent of him lingering, and when she reaches the doorway to the Lewis home she opens it and breathes in the old familiarity of baking bread. She is only here for a few hours, to say goodbye to her old life, and then she'll return to Vision and his golden light and the warmth of his arms.

And then something shatters, and her gaze whips to find Darcy staring at her. Abject shock is written across her face, a plate lying in pieces at her feet, and she gasps, "Wanda?!"

"I'm sorry I was gone so long," she says, and Darcy is still staring at her. "I've been with the sorcerer, Darcy. He...he's not like the stories."

"Wanda, we thought you were _dead_ ," Darcy gasps. "The whole village thought the sorcerer killed you. Mr. Rogers, he...he took it as evidence the sorcerer really is there. They're marching on the manor to kill the sorcerer and burn it down so no more women are hurt!"

" _What_?!" she gasps. "No, no, he would _never_! Vision has been so kind to be, he only wants to help and heal, he would never hurt me!"

"He hasn't devoured your heart?" Darcy asks doubtfully, and she casts her eyes down, flushing.

"He stole it," she says softly. "I...I've fallen in love with him. I only came back to show you that I'm alright. He's going to care for me forever."

"Oh, Wanda, _no_ ," Darcy breathes. "You have to stop the mob. Gosh, come with me, I'll take you to the square, that's where they're meeting."

The square is alive with activity, village folk lighting torches and sharpening knives, and she catches sight of Steve Rogers immediately. He is at the centre of it all, and she runs to him, her eyes full of pleading. "I'm alive!" she shouts, and the eyes turn to her, the crowd murmuring in shock. "Please, you don't have to do this! Vision would never hurt anyone!"

Steve eyes her and snorts. "Enchanted by a sorcerer, just like all the other young girls who come back from the woods," he says, and she shakes her head, frantic tears burning her eyes. "It's not your fault, Wanda. You don't know what you're saying."

"You're wrong about him!" she shouts, and the mob are shuffling and mumbling, shaking their heads. "Please, Steve, you can't hurt him. I love him!"

His face hardens in anger, then melts into softness. "You poor thing," he says softly. "He put a spell on you to cast you in his thrall. Don't worry. Once that monster is dead, his enchantments will break, and you will be safe again."

"He's never hurt anyone!" she protests. "He only wants to heal and help! Whatever vendetta you have, he is no part of it. Maybe you should try hunting down a sorcerer who has actually hurt someone!"

"This sorcerer killed Natasha," Steve says, eyes dark, and she rolls her eyes before she can think of her actions.

"Natasha ran away with the pharmacist's apprentice!" Anger hardens the set of Steve's mouth, and he pushes past her, knocking her aside. "Steve, _please_. Do this for me!"

"I am," he insists, and someone grabs her arm and pulls her away from the mob. And she is left broken on the cobblestones of the square, sobbing as she watches people she once believed friends march to murder the man she loves, their horses nickering in the cold.

* * *

Her side aches with the sharp pain of a stitch, her dress torn, her shoes slick with mud, and she still can't stop running. It took her too long to peel herself from the ground, wipe her tears away and catch up to the mob, and she's already too late. She can see the crowds, hearing the shatter of glass as windows shatter and the greedy rush of flames chewing at the manor's roots, and when she breaks into the manor's garden she sobs to see Vision's carefully-tended herbs trampled.

"This is not the place for you," a man snaps at her, but she pushes through the people who try to barricade her out and into the manor, Vision's cloak rippling around her. Desperation ticks in every beat of her heart, she has to get to him, she has to tell him she loves him and stay with him and stop them from hurting him.

Steve has Vision held at the point of his sword in the living room where they sat so many nights, the place they first kiss, and she whimpers in horror before she can bite it back. Both men turn to look at her, and the way Vision's face lights up hurts. Even threatened, even facing death, he still only sees her. "You came back," he breathes, and she nods, frantic tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Of course I did," she chokes out. "I love you."

"You see?!" Steve shouts, gesturing violently at her with his sword. "You see what you have done to her? You have her in your thrall, making her think she loves you!"

"I rather think she has me in her thrall," Vision says, almost calm, and he's so brave and so stupid, the man she loves.

"Don't make jokes, _sorcerer_ ," Steve spits. "She tried to stop us. She _begged_ for your life." He raises his sword, and it gleams red in the flicker of the firelight, and he hisses, "Once you are dead no more innocent women will fall prey to you."

The anguished scream that sounds as the sword begins to fall must be hers. And she runs, crossing the room, throwing herself desperately in front of Vision. And Steve's eyes go wide, his head stilling, but the motion of his blade cannot be stopped. It finds home in her stomach, and her hand goes to the wound, coming away already drenched in blood.

Another anguished scream, not hers this time. Vision catching her as she falls, as Steve runs, as the manor burns around them and the mob cheers. The world fading in and out at the edges, flickering like it did when she had a fever on her first day in the manor, and Vision's eyes are swimming bright with tears. "Why did you _do_ that?" he gasps, and she smiles with the strength she has, reaching up to touch his face.

"I love you," she breathes, and the pain is beginning to fade. This must be what dying feels like.

"I love you too," he sobs, and she feels so at peace in his arms, the world darkening. "No _, no_ , Wanda, stay with me! You _promised_! You can't leave me!"

He's glowing, gold in his hands, and it's so bright, haloing him. The magic is creeping to the wound in her stomach, and his teeth are gritted, and she doesn't know who he's talking to when he snarls, "Not her. You will not take her."

She lights up gold, and his hand stills. The world wavers back into colour, and she blinks up at him, his face silvered with tears, and the way he's staring at her. When she looks down, she sees gold fading from the edges of the new scar in her stomach, and startles back up to look at him. "You...you saved me," she breathes.

"I've never managed to save someone from a wound like that before," he says softly, his hand on her stomach, running over her smooth skin. There's still blood on her clothes, new and dark and wet, but there's only a scar to prove the sword was ever there. "I thought...I thought you were dying, and all I could do was ease your pain. _Wanda_ -"

"I'm alive," she promises, and sits up straight, turning to take his face between her hands and kiss each promise onto his lips. "I'm okay. I came back. And I'm going to stay. We're going to run away together and find somewhere where magic is beloved and not reviled. We are going to have the most wonderful life."

And finally he looks at her. Simply looks, as she smooths a stray tear away from his cheek, and watches the gold dance in his eyes.

"I love you," he breathes, and leans forward to kiss her. Her hands in his hair and his arms around her, the manor burning around them. Later, they'll make their escape into the woods, a lantern bobbing in his hand, his bloodstained cloak wrapped around her, their hands tangled as they walk towards a new happiness.

But for now, she simply lets her heart be devoured.


End file.
